Before we go any further, I just want to clarify something.


They’ll be not a word of all that commercial rubbish going on across the water. It’s bad enough not being able to see where you’re going when driving around the UK, your view being obscured by 56 million flags sticking out car windows wherever you go… Do they know how much additional fuel their motors are having to consume to compensate for the wind resistence? I dunno… and we call it “Culture”! What a misnomer!

Well now I’m back, from outer space… well, from Orcop actually, a wee little village in the Herefordian countryside that has a 5-mile technology exclusion zone around it. Can’t get a signal for a mobile phone round there, let alone internet. Not that the internet would have been much use, as upon arrival mum and dad informed me that the computer (bought in 1999) had packed up. I thought that it would probably be something simple, you know, they’d forgotten to plug it in etc, but no, it was a wee bit more serious.

“Operating System Not Found”

and then, when I ran the recovery disk,

“Hard Drive Not Found”

I know absolutely nothing when it comes to the internal workings of computers, but somehow managed to remove the hard drive and find the problem – one of the chips had erupted, pubescent-spot stylee. Dead as a dodo.

The following day I managed to locate a second-hand 7-year-old 16GB hard drive, a rarity in these days of drives with the memory capacity of a blue-whale’s stomach after it’s been sick following a night of heavy drinking. Re-installed Windows 98, and all is tickety boo. Not a single piece of data lost, mainly due to the fact that in over 5 years mum and dad have managed to not put a single file in “My Documents”. Anyway, lesson for you all there folks, HARD DRIVES CAN DIE for no apparent reason and completely out of the blue, so make sure you buy Joseph Tame’s backup Software rrp$999 , Paypal at bottom of page…

Anyway anyway, that’s by the by. I’m back on Broadband at the Welsh Garden Project, where I’ll be based for the next 10 weeks or so, with a week off here and there doing STUFF as one does when the summer comes.

*Twinkle* (previously known as *Cough*. I was threatened with a lawsuit by Benelin, thus the new identity, which is far more fitting me thinks. Far too cute to be a Cough…) has now departed for Sheffield, having spent a week with me in the South. Thus, you can look forward to the Tame winging (surely that should be spelt ‘winjing”?) (Update: See comment below) about being sad and lonely ‘long distance’ this and ‘boo hoo’ that. Still, we have messenger, and I’ll be popping back up there at some point to ensure that we remain in good health :-p

Yesterday we travelled back in time to a local village fete, you know, the type that used to be held in every community about 500 years ago, in order to raise money for the parish church. Village fetes are still quite common out in the sticks, and judging by yesterday’s experience, haven’t changed much since their inception under the Romans in the 4th Century BC.

This particular village fete was, true to form, held in the garden of the local Mr. Darcy, in order to raise money for the church. It was opened by the vicar and the local MP, who had a big hat on like mine to keep the sweltering sun off his bonce.

The highlight had to be those bastions of Bristish Culture, Punch and Judy.

Mind you, their routine had changed quite a bit since my day. THIS Mr. Punch put the baby in the microwave. Not only that, he dangled it out the window, saying, “If it’s good enough for Michael Jackson it’s good enough for me!”

I’m not sure if the three and four year olds got that one…

Here’s a little video clip for those of you who are yet to experience the wonders of traditional British puppetry.

Another classic attraction was the ‘throw the wet sponge at the little boy’. Here he is, firmly secured, just waiting for me and my mighty overarm. I spent 25 quid (at 30p a shot) lobbing lumps of sopping foam at his little nonce. Ah, the satisfaction when I scored a direct hit! (note sponge in flight, on the right)

Next up it was the coconut shy, 6 balls for 30p. *Twinkle* managed to knock one off straight away, although I swear there was a bit of gender discrimination going on, as when it was my turn, the man running the thing applied a fresh coat of Superglue! I managed a really hard, direct hit, but the ball just bounced off and flew into the bushes, knocking a badger unconscious, in a manner that reminded me of the concrete-filled tennis balls that I was forced to chew on as a kid.

Following that, we had tea on the terrace, which we sipped with our little fingers pointing up in the air, as one does at these events. It was all so civilised.

Last night we went to a local beer festival, which was a right laugh. Mainly because everyone was drunk and doing rather mad dancing. Oooh, that reminds me, you’ll never guess what my mum and dad did the other night: they got my girlfriend drunk! This is my girlfriend who has a sort of allergy to alcohol (even the smallest bit can make her ill). They seduced her with a glass of strong Herefordian Cider, convincing her it was juice. Thing is you see, in Japan, “Cider” is non-alcoholic apple juice. She went rather red, and was quite a handful in the caravan in which the two of us were resident that night.

Anyway, I must get on, I have all sorts of stuff to do tonight, such as pluck my nasal hairs, for tomorrow, I start the gardening.

One Response

  1. Actually, it should be spelt ‘whinging’, although I suppose ‘winjing’ works too… 😛